


A Kind of Roots

by mazurka



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mazurka/pseuds/mazurka
Summary: Seungkwan accidentally reunites two childhood friends.





	A Kind of Roots

**Author's Note:**

  * For [woozifi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/woozifi/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I know little about tattoos and even less about flowers, but I hope you’ll like this anyway!
> 
>   * Loosely set in Seoul, hence the tattoo parlour legality issues.
>   * Title from "Rug/Hydrangea" by Alexander Vvedensky, tr. [Matvei Yankelevich](http://www.nupress.northwestern.edu/content/oberiu).
> 


“Jihoon? Why the—what are you doing here?”

Seungcheol stares at the figure before him. Hair a bit shorter, shoulders a bit broader, but he would have known that face anywhere.

“Seungcheol-hyung?” Jihoon’s mouth halts mid-smile, shifting to a puzzled pout. He darts a quick glance at the number on the door. “Where—I think this is the wrong apartment.” He shifts his weight, seeming unsure of his next move.

“Wait, don’t go,” Seungcheol blurts out, though Jihoon had not made to leave. “Shit, I haven’t seen you in ages. Come in!”

He steps out of the way to let Jihoon past him, the whole situation feeling quite surreal.

“So...what’s going on?” Seungcheol turns to him expectantly. “Were you looking for someone?”

Jihoon casts intermittent glances at him, almost clandestine. “I’m here for a job and this is the address. Is there a ‘Seungkwan’ who lives here?”

As if on cue, a voice calls out from the sanctum of the apartment: “Is that my accompanist?” The owner of the voice strides into the den, a boy with an open, heart-shaped face and the affable air of a class president. When he sees Jihoon, he beams and greets him with a bow. “Jihoon-ssi, thank you so much for coming!”

“Nice to meet you,” Jihoon says, returning the bow somewhat stiffly.

“Wait, he’s the accompanist for your exam?” Seungcheol looks between them, nonplussed. “I thought you said you got some random guy off the internet.”

“...That would be me,” Jihoon says drily, raising his hand.

“Oh my God, is he _your_ Jihoon?” Seungkwan asks, wide-eyed.

“Uh, well—yeah,” Seungcheol sputters, growing increasingly flustered as Jihoon raises his eyebrows.

Seungkwan hums, considering, then settles on a decision. “Okay, listen. You know how the neighbours get whenever I practise in the evening, so hyung, go get us dinner and we can all eat together after rehearsal.”

Seungcheol dithers, but relents under Seungkwan’s puppy-dog eyes.

“All right, all right, I’ll fuck off,” Seungcheol grumbles, plucking his jacket from the back of the couch.

* * *

An hour later, Seungcheol walks back to the apartment bearing takeout. Strains of music drift through the air, faint piano and Seungkwan’s distinct voice over it, leading him forward like a beacon. He unlocks the door and steps in softly, mindful not to disrupt them. Seungkwan spares him only a brief glance and Seungcheol feels oddly like he has been dismissed.

He stands off to the side, observing, struck by how distant they seem in the act of performing, transfigured by the music. Jihoon has his back to Seungcheol as he plays on their cheap upright. His mind supplies the memory of Jihoon at the piano in years past, his face serious as his fingers drew sonatas from the keys. It had been endearingly incongruous—a boy whose stature and chubby cheeks belied his age, sitting at the piano looking so grave.

At last, the song tapers off and Seungcheol claps with enthusiasm, the sound an inadequately clumsy response to something so precise.

Jihoon turns slightly at the disturbance, the flicker of a smile on his face. He swings his legs over the bench to face them and regards the other two as if waiting for a prompt.

“Come on then,” Seungkwan says. “Let’s eat!”

Jihoon hesitates for a moment before walking over to help Seungcheol unpack the food. From the kitchen, the happy clatter of Seungkwan grabbing plates and silverware provides domestic ambient noise.

“This is yours,” Seungcheol says, handing Jihoon a container of stir-fry. “I know you don’t like curry.”

Jihoon smiles at him, murmuring, “Thanks.”

Absurdly, Seungcheol feels like he has passed some sort of test.

“—though I don’t really mind curry these days,” Jihoon continues.

Or not.

Dinner is a pleasant affair, with Seungkwan playing the gracious host and telling embarrassing stories about Seungcheol. Jihoon relaxes in increments, like snow melting. He fidgets with his sleeves all the while, tugging them over his hands until his fingers are hidden in the oversized cloth.

“Do you remember when we went skinny-dipping on my birthday?” Seungcheol has an expectant gleam in his eyes, eager to reminisce in front of an audience.

“No…” Seungkwan says slowly, dragging the word out and allowing Seungcheol’s expression to grow increasingly affronted before grinning and placating him. “Of course I remember—but let’s save that story for I’m way more inebriated.”

“You shit,” Seungcheol grumbles. “I was really upset for a second.”

Jihoon snickers and Seungcheol shoots him a wounded look even as he pinches Seungkwan for the offence.

“So, how have you been, man?” Seungcheol asks, gesturing with a sweeping motion of his hand, as if to encompass the breadth of Jihoon’s life since they had last met.

Taken aback by the sudden attention, Jihoon casts his eyes downward, offering a small smile as he responds. “Nothing crazy; working, stressing about rent.”

“Ugh, tell me about it. You still writing music?” Seungcheol leans forward, elbows resting on the table, expression warm as he takes in Jihoon’s nod and hum of assent.

“You should play something for us,” Seungkwan suggests, eyes alight with interest.

“Let the guy eat,” Seungcheol scolds, flicking Seungkwan’s temple and stealing some food from his plate.

Seungkwan retaliates by launching into a tale of Seungcheol humiliating himself during a game of charades, but is summarily cut off by Seungcheol catching him in a headlock. The whole thing devolves into a slapstick fist fight and Seungkwan shouting that Jihoon would be a witness to his murder.

Jihoon watches them tussle, startled into laughter that crinkles his eyes. To Seungcheol, it feels like a victory.

At the end of the night, when saying their goodbyes at the door, Seungcheol bends a little to Jihoon’s height to wrap his arms around his waist in a hug. Jihoon’s body is slight underneath the loose fabric of his sweater and Seungcheol’s chest fills with warmth—something like relief—knowing that Jihoon has not outgrown him in their time apart; some changes cannot be borne. Jihoon’s arms wind around his shoulders gently, a light pressure of palms just barely touching him, not reciprocating but rather acquiescing to the hug. Still, he makes no move to extricate himself until Seungcheol releases him.

“Bye, hyung,” he says, and with a smile and a wave, he leaves.

* * *

The next time they meet is in a modest local cafe amid over-caffeinated students and clusters of chatty patrons.

“Damn, a tattoo artist? Really?” Seungcheol examines Jihoon in amazement. “That’s badass.”

Jihoon smiles at him, a subtle wariness finally dissipating from his posture. “I mostly got caught up in it ‘cause of my friend, Jeonghan, but it’s fun. I mean, besides the low-key anxiety about getting busted, but cops are pretty lax on us these days.”

Seungcheol scrutinises him, intrigued. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Just one, actually,” Jihoon says, turning his head to the side. He points to a bass clef that curves behind his ear, echoing the shape of the cartilage. The design’s austerity is captivating, and makes Seungcheol’s fingers itch to trace it along the skin.

“Isn’t it weird to only have one? Most tattoo artists are all inked up.”

Jihoon shrugs. “There wasn’t anything else I wanted. Honestly, I’m not sure if I would do this for the rest of my life, you know? I kinda miss music.”

Seungcheol nods. “Yeah, I get it. Is that why you’re taking accompanist gigs?”

“Yup, easing my way back into it.” Jihoon’s tone is affectedly casual, as if he won’t allow this to be important. “Anyway, how’s your work?”

“Pretty good. I think I’ve developed permanent bride-phobia, though,” Seungcheol says, already feeling a rant coming on and helpless to curb it. “I swear, there’s nothing like watching one of your designers have a melt-down over hydrangea pomanders because the bride refuses to use silk flowers instead of real ones. And why don’t they ever hold weddings when their favourite flowers are actually in season? Especially peonies, fuck.”

Jihoon raises his eyebrows in amusement. “They can’t be worse than funerals.”

Seungcheol winces. “Depends. When they just wanna get it over with, it only takes, like, half an hour before they write you a cheque and hightail it out of the shop, but grief makes people crazy sometimes. Like, I get that when they’re yelling at me about a casket spray, it’s not really about me or my flowers, but it’s still stressful as hell.”

“Hm, we both make art that we can’t keep,” Jihoon muses. “Yours die and mine leave.”

“Jesus, that’s morbid,” Seungcheol says, looking at Jihoon with exaggerated horror. “At least you get to keep the ones on your body, though.”

Jihoon smirks. “Do you want me to tattoo you?”

“Fuck, no!” Seungcheol’s arms recoil into his chest, shielding himself. “Keep your needles away from me, you sadist!”

Jihoon throws his head back with a loud bark of laughter, gloriously unselfconscious for a moment, before catching himself and reining it in.

 _This is nice_ , Seungcheol thinks, watching Jihoon’s shoulders shake from suppressed laughter. In this bustling cafe, each table its own conversational island, he realises, abruptly, how much he had missed his best friend.

* * *

The day of the second rehearsal, Seungcheol comes home to find Seungkwan and Jihoon sitting side by side on the piano bench, his roommate listening attentively as Jihoon guides him through the fingerings for various scales. Figuring that practice must have concluded, he ambles over and plops down on Jihoon’s other side.

“Good afternoon, teacher,” he chirps. “What’s on the syllabus for today?”

“Hey, you’re back,” Seungkwan greets, testing out a two-handed scale with inexpert fingers. “Jihoon-hyung looks so cool playing the piano and I wanted to learn!”

Jihoon ducks his head, embarrassed by the praise. “I’m just giving him a basic run-down.”

“Any longer and I’d have to pay him for a lesson,” Seungkwan adds with a cheeky grin.

“Why do you guys even have a piano if neither of you can play?” Jihoon asks, adjusting the position of his pupil’s wrist.

“Previous tenant didn’t want it anymore,” Seungkwan says, shrugging. “Also, aesthetics.”

“And what do you mean I can’t play?” Seungcheol huffs, feigning offence.

Jihoon peers at him sceptically. “‘Chopsticks’ doesn’t count.”

Seungcheol jerks his head back like a chicken. “The fuck? That’s some elitist shit.”

“Sure, hyung,” Seungkwan says, making pointed eye contact with Jihoon, ever impudent. “Anyway, thanks for teaching me, Jihoon-hyung! I’ve gotta go: my loyal listeners await.”

“He’s on college radio,” Seungcheol explains.

“Preparing for my future career in broadcasting—or maybe as a talk-show host. Wherever the people need me.” Seungkwan adjusts his collar and strikes a pose, sucking in his cheeks. “How do I look?”

“Perfect for radio,” Seungcheol says. Beside him, Jihoon snickers and tries to pass it off as a harrumph.

Seungkwan narrows his eyes at them, then sniffs and pivots away, not deigning to respond beyond a breezy “Behave yourself while I’m away!” as he sweeps out of the room.

Seungcheol resettles on the floor at the foot of the bench, leaning against it almost back to back with Jihoon but dislocated; Jihoon higher, Seungcheol lower. He tips his head to rest on Jihoon’s lower back, just to the side of his spine.

Daylight streams in through the window, warm on Seungcheol’s skin, and he luxuriates in it, mind drifting. Gradually, Jihoon’s muscles relax, the shift in posture jostling Seungcheol’s head. Snippets of melodies float around him, a tapestry of the familiar and foreign.

“Hey, piano man,” Seungcheol murmurs. “Play me a memory.”

So, Jihoon does.

Seungcheol instantly recognises the piece: something classical that he had been told the name of long ago. Back then, they had lived on the same block and rarely spent an evening apart. Seungcheol would do his homework as Jihoon practised his instruments, alternately the clarinet’s reedy warble and the piano’s clear plinks.

Something catches in his throat, nostalgia coalescing like a tangible weight, a change in air pressure. It is as if time has grown pliable, and if he blinks he might find himself in the ephemeral past, seven years ago, when even the sunlight was younger, listening to the same boy play a different piano.

But he is held fast by the piano’s vibrations reverberating through the floorboards and thrumming through his body, by the infinitesimal shifting of Jihoon’s muscles against the back of Seungcheol’s head. These sensations frame an undeniable reality that binds him to the ephemeral present.

* * *

Never let it be said that Jihoon doesn’t love his co-workers. And yet…

“So, whose designs do you like better—mine or Hansol’s?” Jeonghan asks, faking nonchalance.

“Hyung, you know I’m never gonna answer that question no matter how many times you ask.” Jihoon gives him a look somewhere between exasperated and amused, going back to wiping down his machine.

Jeonghan pouts, his lower lip piercing jutting out. “You’re not my favourite dongsaeng anymore.”

Jihoon snorts. “We all know Seokmin’s your favourite anyway.”

“Why don’t you just ask Jihoon-hyung to swear eternal devotion to you and be done with it?” Hansol offers, yelping when Jeonghan flicks his ear.

“Don’t be impertinent. Anyway, it only counts when he chooses for himself.”

“Fine, I choose Hansol.”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Jeonghan sits bolt upright in his chair.

“His Stitch tat can do the hula; it’s cute.” Jihoon shrugs, giggling at Jeonghan’s indignation.

“Yeah, boy,” Hansol crows, demonstrating by pinching the alien tattooed on his forearm and jiggling the skin around to make the little guy wobble a distorted shimmy. “‘Our beautiful bodies grindin’ up in the club.’”

“This is so fuckin’ rude,” Jeonghan grumbles, pouting for a while before letting out a grand sigh. “By the way, Jihoon-ah, how are things with that friend you ran into?”

“Seungcheol? It’s good. I still can’t believe he’s a florist though. I always thought he’d do something with sports. He was kind of a jock back in school.”

“I bet he didn’t think you’d be doing this either. Was he weird about it?”

“No, he was cool with it, just surprised.”

“It’s odd seeing people you knew when you were growing up. Like, you both knew each other when you were just dumb kids trying to find yourselves and now you’re all grown up. You’ve become someone,” Hansol muses, doodling a flash of J. Cole wearing Tyler Durden shades.

Jihoon cringes. “God, that sounds so dramatic.”

Hansol gives him a sheepish grin. “If you guys were close, why’d you stop talking?”

“I...don’t know. He left for university and we texted for a while, but we both got busy and it died out and…we didn’t pick it up again.” Jihoon busies himself with the autoclave, thinking fiercely that it is useless to regret what cannot be changed.

“Come on, Hansolie,” Jeonghan says, ruffling his hair affectionately. “Less thinking and more setting up. We’ve got someone booked for two o’clock.”

* * *

Later that week, Jihoon and Seungcheol meet up at a lakeside park to play soccer. The sheer mindlessness of physical activity is glorious. Being too competitive for their own good, the game escalates in intensity until Seungcheol is felled by a cramp in his side.

“Help me,” he whines, clutching his waist and flopping around on the grass.

Jihoon drops down as well, spread-eagled and squinting in the sunlight. “Stretch it out. Don’t worry, hyung—you’ll probably live.”

He rolls his head over to peek at Seungcheol’s expression and is greeted by a sulky pout.

“I would’ve beaten you anyway.”

“Ha! Dream on.”

As the sun saunters towards the west, they make their way to the sandy beach to savour the sea breeze.

“What do you do when you’re not working?” Seungcheol asks. His hair is windswept and today, he smells of lilies.

“Sleep, mostly,” Jihoon responds, a little embarrassed.

“God, that sounds like heaven.” Seungcheol points woefully at his eye circles, darker than they had ever been in high school. They give him a somewhat hangdog appearance. “I look like a fuckin’ zombie.”

“Are you gonna eat my brains?” Jihoon teases, eyebrows lifted.

Seungcheol’s response is to haul him in by the nape of his neck and pretend to bite at his head.

Jihoon yelps, batting his hands away and ducking his head to escape. “...Hyung, you got saliva in my hair.”

“A real zombie would’ve done much worse,” Seungcheol says seriously, then grins, cheeks dimpling. He plucks a small pebble from the sand, rubbing his thumb over its smooth surface before hurling it out towards the lake. The pebble skips once, twice, then sinks into the water with hardly a splash.

Not to be outdone, Jihoon finds another pebble, an oblong with a concavity in the side as if someone had gouged it out. With a look of intense concentration, he prepares: exhale, windup, pitch—and the pebble soars through the air in a gorgeous arc, terminating in a nosedive.

Seungcheol lets out a shriek of laughter, rolling around in the sand like a pig in mud. Jihoon watches, lips quirked wryly, as Seungcheol rolls to a stop at his feet. He tugs at Jihoon’s ankle until he sits down and proceeds to spend a good while burying Jihoon’s legs under a mound of sand.

(“God, I swear I have sand in my ass-crack.”

“Ugh, same.”)

* * *

The night after the third rehearsal (during which Seungkwan had been in a state of febrile agitation), Seungcheol hangs out at Jihoon’s apartment for the first time. It’s small and moderately untidy. Upon entering, the place almost reminds him of the scent of Jihoon’s childhood home, except more sharply like Jihoon himself. In the corner is a laptop hooked up to an electric keyboard.

“Oh, cool!” Seungcheol bounds over to the set-up and presses random buttons on the panel. One of them brings up a samba beat and Seungcheol starts grooving to it, busting out “the robot” and dad-letting-loose-at-a-church-social moves that make Jihoon cover his eyes in embarrassment despite the lack of other witnesses.

After some indecision, they settle on watching a movie. The only one Jihoon has on his computer is _Cloverfield_ , a creature feature that he had been meaning to watch. Of course, this means that one minute into the real action, Seungcheol loses his mind, clutching Jihoon’s body in front of him like a human shield.

“Oh God, you’re not even big enough to hide behind,” he whimpers, nails digging into Jihoon’s sides.

“Hey, any more size comments and I’ll let the aliens have you,” Jihoon jokes as another inky carapace skitters across the screen and Seungcheol’s arms tighten around him like a boa constrictor. He smells of lavender tonight, soothingly herbal.

“Fuck, Jihoonie, don’t fucking joke about shit like that. I’m gonna shit my pants,” Seungcheol wails, flinching at a jump scare.

Jihoon tries to pay attention to the movie but finds himself more preoccupied with how hilarious Seungcheol’s reactions are. Admittedly, he is too strong and Jihoon is getting a little sore from the flailing limbs and grasping hands, but his chest expands with happiness.

There is something irresistibly endearing about Seungcheol’s sheer, unguarded terror. His childish vulnerability inspires a surge of warmth in Jihoon, a helpless sort of love, deeply-rooted, unfurling after a long winter.

“You know, I used to think that you’d become a concert pianist or something,” Seungcheol says later when they’re lying next to each other on Jihoon’s narrow bed.

“What? Why? I never said that I wanted to do classical music for my whole life.”

“I dunno. I guess—I guess it was ‘cause you were so impressive. Your hands on the keys always looked so, like, nice—pretty. Elegant,” Seungcheol fumbles, fidgeting with the bedspread.

“Oh,” Jihoon says, not sure how to continue. He feels relaxed, content, but there is something restless in his body. “Other kids played piano, too.”

“Yeah, but other kids weren’t my best friend,” Seungcheol says, smile evident in his voice. “Plus, you were still better than them.”

“Good to know that I’ll have at least one fan if I ever break into the music biz,” Jihoon deadpans, pleased by the compliment but trying not to let it show.

They lie in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of traffic approaching and receding like waves.

Seungcheol clears his throat, an abrupt and self-conscious noise. “I’m sorry I didn’t call or text or...reach out. I don’t even know why. I kept telling myself that I would but—”

Jihoon waits, his heart a low ache in his chest.

“There are so many reasons—excuses—that I could list but they’re all fucking stupid. Eventually, it’d been so long that I didn’t even know if you’d still want to talk to me again. I thought we’d still run into each other visiting our parents back home but then my family moved and…” Seungcheol takes a deep, wavering breath. “I’m so sorry, Jihoonie.”

Jihoon blinks at the ceiling and wills himself not to cry. “It wasn’t just you. I could’ve tried harder, too.”

Seungcheol turns on his side and when he next speaks, his breath lands hot on Jihoon’s neck. “Still, I’m sorry.”

Gathering his courage, Jihoon turns to face Seungcheol, their bodies curved towards each other like parentheses. He looks into Seungcheol’s big, watery eyes for a moment, but it’s too much to bear, so he focusses on his collarbone instead. “Me, too.”

Seungcheol laughs softly. “We’re so dumb. Let’s never do something that dumb again.”

“Sure, hyung, though that might be hard for you.”

“Hey, show a little respect!”

It’s nice, lying in the dark whispering together. It reminds Jihoon of boyhood sleepovers whenever one of them had been too exhausted to go home. They would wake up tangled in each other, having moved closer in the night, instinctively seeking the comfort of body heat. So this is nice and familiar, right up until he lifts his eyes to meet Seungcheol’s again and it’s—something else entirely.

Jihoon holds Seungcheol’s gaze despite the fear tightening his chest and the wild percussion of his heart that hammers in his throat. Like the dense air before a storm, this moment feels dangerous with potential. Seungcheol extends one hand and lets his fingers graze Jihoon’s cheek. It is a question awaiting an answer but no words rise to the occasion.

Somehow, Seungcheol understands his unspoken acquiescence and draws closer until Jihoon can’t look at him without going cross-eyed. His eyelids flutter closed just as a kiss lands on his lips.

Seungcheol’s mouth is a soft, full pout against his own and there is a second’s standstill where they simply stay in that chaste press of lips. Then, Seungcheol pulls Jihoon in to kiss him properly with a slow, simmering hunger that reaches something deep in Jihoon to coax out a desperation he didn’t think he was capable of. When they separate, Jihoon feels almost bereft, and has to reach his hand out to place his palm on Seungcheol’s chest and confirm that the frantic heartbeat there matches his own.

“Damn,” Seungcheol whispers. They both giggle, swept up in the rush of newness and intimacy, suddenly shy.

In the quiet sanctuary of the bed, they exchange murmured questions and answers that gradually lull them into drowsiness. At last, Jihoon yawns, so wide that his jaw cracks from the stretch, and Seungcheol draws him into his chest, adjusting his arms to get comfortable. And so, cozily ensnared, Jihoon sleeps.

* * *

On a particular Thursday afternoon, Seungkwan is halfway through his vocal exam. Meanwhile, Seungcheol is sprinting up the steps of a church that serves as the ad hoc exam hall. His arms are laden with flowers—two bouquets cradled like swaddled infants.

Inside the church, an apathetic registrar sits at a desk. Next to her, there is a huddle of chairs, some filled by music students, as well as a few parents. From a long corridor to the right comes a muted cacophony, variegated instruments playing behind numerous doors, the different melodies intermixed and discordant.

But Seungcheol pays that no mind. Instead, he looks straight ahead. From where he sits, he faces a set of glass doors through which he can see the nave, empty but for three figures. Seungkwan, standing on the chancel with his hands clasped; Jihoon, sitting at the gleaming grand piano nearby; and a white-haired adjudicator watching from the front pew.

Seungkwan is running through his repertoire, his lovely voice soaring above the gentle accompaniment, slightly muffled from where Seungcheol sits. Entering into a sort of trance induced by the constant, mingling strains of music around him, he finds himself nodding off.

“Wakey, wakey, hyung!” a voice calls right beside his ear, jolting him to consciousness, and he nearly topples over from fright.

Seungcheol stands, dazed, and automatically sets the flowers down carefully on the chair, instinct prompting him to protect his plants. Then, he turns around and envelops Seungkwan in a bear hug.

“Here you go, Seungkwanie,” he says, handing him a bouquet of pastel blossoms: white heather, green carnations, lavender hydrangeas, green button mums, larkspur, and hyacinth. “I’m sure you killed it in there.”

Seungkwan buries his face in the flowers and inhales deeply, beaming. “Thanks, hyung! You’re pretty great sometimes,” he says, laughing when Seungcheol reaches out to tweak his nose.

“This one’s yours,” Seungcheol says, picking up a French spiral bouquet of garden roses, interspersed with sweet peas, ranunculus, stock, and cyclamen.

The roses are a lush, vibrant red, and Jihoon’s eyes widen at the sight. He takes them cautiously, as if handling something fragile, and strokes one soft petal with wonderment. “Thank you,” he says, hushed.

The warmth in his eyes has Seungcheol reaching for his hand to interlace their fingers. Besotted, he is half-convinced that his heart is a sunflower leaning towards the radiance of Jihoon.

Seungkwan regards the scene with his head cocked and an expression of dawning comprehension. Seungcheol shoots him a warning glance, to which he responds with a slow smile, like the cat that stole the cream.

“C’mon hyung! I feel like celebrating and drinks are on you,” he says brightly, skipping towards the door ahead of the two of them.

Together, hand in hand, they follow.

**Author's Note:**

> > Therefore so many as these [roses](https://twitter.com/jihoonjuseyo/status/876324933189607428) be,  
> Kiss me so many times.
> 
>   
> “A Ballad of Life”, Algernon Charles Swinburne
> 
> Misc:
> 
>   * [My favourite awkward hug](http://fyjicheol.tumblr.com/post/133057320676)
>   * [Edible Jihoon](https://twitter.com/gustokongkape/status/709935741594247168)
>   * The saga of [Hansol](https://youtu.be/O1-OnYGhuKA) & [Stitch](http://pledis17.com/post/161514451033)
> 



End file.
